


Hope

by CrumblingAsh



Series: Fragile Things [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's time has passed differently than for the rest of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope

* * *

 

_“You can handle it.” Fury, looking him in the eye because it actually wasn’t an option. “Can’t you, Soldier?”_

The calendar says Bucky’s been dead for decades.

Every morning, Steve runs for miles, begging his body for exhaustion that doesn’t come. Each crunch of his shoes against the gravel is only the echo of roaring fire from machine guns, reverberating in his ears as _bullets desperately seek the vulnerable bodies of his team-_

Only not. Because it’s been years, not days, not hours. Years and years and years and years.

The bullets can’t get them, Rogers, they’re already dead.

He runs harder, but can’t shake the awareness of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents on his heels in the distance.

He travels the coastline on the back of his motorcycle, smooth and purring and powerful under his hands. The growl of the engine blocks out the sounds of war cries and gurgling final breaths the same way it had in Germany.

Until he cuts the engine to the sassy, accented whispers of Peggy’s polished voice, fond in the silence.

The motels he chooses are, well … old, with wooden porches and doors with bells above them and small dining areas with home-cooked meals. But they’re warm, and welcoming – the older gentlemen approving of his manners and their ladies utterly charmed to the point of pinching his cheeks and throwing food on his plate until he can’t eat anymore. They’re familiar, if still too new, and in those few hours he can relax for just a few deep breaths and pretend. It’s selfish, he knows that.

_“The world can’t wait.”_

Some nights he can sleep.

The beds are the smallest available and still too big.

_Bucky’s sharp, tired grin, crowded into their shared bed in the boy’s room. ‘Maybe one day we’ll be lucky enough to afford one of them big beds like the upper folks. And those goose-feather pillows and whatnot. Wait, no, not with your lungs, you can have normal pillows. But silk sheets. You’d like them wouldn’t you, punk? Such a girl.’_

More often than not, he grabs a pillow and curls against the corner closest to the window, pressing into the wood of the wall until he’s just shy of uncomfortable, doesn’t acknowledge the S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle parked discreetly across the street.

Closes his eyes. For a second, it’s Peggy, with her radiant smile and dangerous eyes, and it lulls him.

And then _Bucky. Bucky, stop! protecting him, Bucky, falling, falling, dead, gone “We regret to inform you”-_

He jolts into awareness before he’s even asleep, slamming against the wall, Bucky’s name hoarse on his lips, his throat an already fading ache, and he’s sweating, but he’s cold.

Most nights, he’s straightening his room to perfection, repacking his small bag, leaving an apology tip on the pillow replaced from the floor, and quietly leaves.

 A selfless thing to do; he’s Captain America.

His bike rumbles and he doesn’t wipe off the tears at Bucky’s faint laughter.


End file.
